


Connecting

by RennieMcTavish



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: Erotica, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Non-Explicit, POV First Person, Sensuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 03:41:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3342245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RennieMcTavish/pseuds/RennieMcTavish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An erotic vignette inspired by this image.<br/><img/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Connecting

 

I dip my tongue into his ear. He shivers. “One,” I say.

“Two.” The tiniest flick of my tongue against a freckle on the tender skin behind his ear.

Ah. There are  _two_  on the nape of his neck. One kiss, two kisses.  The hairs on his neck stand up.

 

It’s as if the juice of some ripe, dark fruit sprayed across his back, leaving tiny drops to stain his ivory skin.

I lick a meandering path across his shoulders, stopping now and then to kiss a particularly sweet spot. I lose count within moments.

Now to the long column of his spine. Fewer freckles there, but I still gift it with a slow, wet lick all the way to the small of his back.

He groans my name.

“Hush.”

I linger. A scattering of freckles to tease with little flicks of my tongue. Dimples to kiss for their sweetness. The sublime curve of his ass that begs for one little nip.

This time, when my name escapes his lips, it carries with it a profanity or two.

“Hush.” I soothe the spot with a kiss.

 

Legs. Were I to travel their full length, I would be here for hours, so I settle for kisses on the soft backs of his knees, until I see a shy freckle hiding on the inside of his thigh.

When my mouth finds it and lingers, his entire body tenses. I tease him, licking upward, inward, seeking another tiny dot. Another perfect imperfection. When I finally stop, he is moaning, his hips moving against the mattress.

 

“Roll over,” I whisper.

He does, and reaches for me. I catch his elegant hands in mine. “No. Lie still.”

He complies, but his crystal blue eyes promise that devilishly creative and erotic turnabout will be fair play.

My body flutters, a moth to his flame.

 

I contemplate his face, his neck, his torso. Where to start with such an embarrassment of riches?

That freckle in his ear is just too tempting, and I dip my tongue in again. Now to one at the top of his cheekbone, one on his temple, one on his chin. I rub my cheek across his, imagining his stubble rasping against more sensitive skin.

I linger near his mouth. His eyelids flutter closed.

I follow a meandering trail down his neck, nuzzling his Adam’s apple as he swallows. Now, tracing that dotted triangle, I purr against his skin. I pause for a moment to inhale the delicious scent of him, the last vestiges of cologne that mix with sweat on skin warm from exertion.

I taste each of the marks scattered along his sculpted collarbones, wanting to suck their sweetness into my mouth. He makes a sound that runs along my nerves, pooling inside me.

His neck grows taut, the veins pressing against the skin. I kiss one, then lick my way down it to his shoulder, to the dusting of freckles there.

Dark stars on a white sky. My tongue draws a constellation on the heaven of his skin.

 

The topography of his torso begs to be explored. I nuzzle the patch of hair over his breastbone. A bit of fluff, really, just a whisper of what I know I’ll find lower on my meandering path.

A freckle not far from his heart beckons to my mouth.

So close … his dark nipples make me cease my wandering and travel with purpose.

I lick. He moans softly. I suck. His breath hisses through his teeth. His hands tighten in the bedclothes and the veins stand out on the back of his hands, rivers in a landscape of muscle and bone. I lay my hand on his and he opens it, interlacing his fingers with mine.

 

His stomach is ridges and valleys of lean muscle, marked with freckles like the first random splatter of tiny raindrops before a storm. He could be sculpted of marble if it weren’t for the veins that show blue through his warm skin, or the freckles that make him real. There is one, a true beauty mark, that draws my eyes and my mouth. I kiss it, lingering until I can find others, and trace a wandering route, pausing occasionally, feeling his fingers lock into mine when I lick a sensitive spot.

I follow one of those exquisite grooves that start at his hips, taking tiny detours as I find freckles along the way. The sounds he makes are half pleasure, half frustration. My tongue leads me to just below his navel. I blow cool air along the trail of dark hair that starts there.  He curses. I choose to interpret the name he calls me as a compliment.

 

Journey’s end. My game has no purpose now. There are no freckles on the velvet skin before me. It’s for the best – my mouth doesn’t wish to dwell on minutiae here. Not when he makes a sound like he does when my lips first touch him.

Here, he tastes of salt and sex. The primordial ocean and the creatures we are.

My body is opening, ready to welcome him, to have him touch quivering nerves and release the ache that’s been torturing me. For in teasing him, I’ve been teasing myself.

He growls and tugs at my hand, and I know my play must stop. That now he’ll have his turn.  Explore me, I beg silently. Taste me with that sweet, wicked mouth.  Make me shatter, then bring me back to your arms.

 

When it’s done, when our hearts no longer pound, our breaths no longer rasp in our throats, our sweat no longer slicks our skin – he holds me. My tongue draws a heart over his, the only way I can tell him what I feel. We are too new for the words I want to say, though they dance in my mouth. I won’t say them, only savor them, just as I savor the taste of his skin.

His arms tighten around me. One hand comes up to stroke my hair. “Darling,” he says, “You are mine.”

Perhaps we are not too new after all.


End file.
